Einherjar
oneiriad
Disclaimer: Vikings does not belong to me. I'm just playing. Nobody's actually getting hurt.
The last thing he remembers is Ragnar, bloodspattered and running across the battle field towards him as the darkness closed in.
Being dead is not at all like Athelstan expected it to be. Mostly because, quite frankly, despite having made his peace with the thought that perhaps Ragnar's gods were real, then, in his heart of hearts, he was always more Christian than pagan.
Which is why he was rather surprised to find himself in Valhalla, the latest einherjar in Odin's vast army.
He remembers how - years ago, back when he was still just a monk and had known so very little of the world - how he used to imagine Heaven as a scriptorium, bright and quiet with rows and rows of beautifully crafted books extolling the glory of God and the tools to craft more. Sometimes, he still finds himself wondering if Heaven might be like that.
Valhalla is noisy - jostling crowds at night in the great hall, mead and meat and shouting to be heard above the general din, screams and roars on the plains by day as men fight and die anew.
Athelstan finds himself missing England - its monasteries, its books, its quiet - far more than he ever did in Kattegat. More than that, he finds himself lonesome.
There are people he recognizes in Valhalla, people that recognize him - Leif, Arne, Erik - and he becomes part of their group mostly because there is no other place for him to go. They look at him strangely, sometimes, remembering the frightened Christian slave, yet before them they see a warrior. His grave goods were gold and silver, weapons and armor, even a fine horse and a hawk - grave goods fit for a prince, not a slave.
There are others he recognize - Earl Haraldson for one, but the man had merely frowned at him briefly before turning back to his own circle, arms around the shoulders of his sons. King Horik for another, whose face had turned black with rage at the sight of him.
And then there are the gods - distant for all that they sit at Valfather's table, impossible and inhuman and vast. He knows their names - Odin, Freyr, Ullr, Freya, Gefion, Frigg and oh so many others.
And Thor.
The first time he sees Thor he only just manages to stop himself from stepping forward and calling Ragnar's name, for the god bears an uncanny resemblance to the man, and Athelstan is reminded of Ragnar's claim of being a descendant of Odin.
Only, reminded of Ragnar, he found himself missing the man - his friend - even more. It is a constant ache.
At night, he sits with the men who are not his comrades, drinking mead to drown his memories.
At day - at day they fight. Sometimes they die. Sometimes they are among the few still standing as the sun dips beneath the horizon. But most days they die.
Most days Horik kills him.
This day is promising to be yet another one of those. Arne has fallen under Gunnhild's axe - Leif and Erik finished her off before themselves falling under a wave of Horik's men, among them faces that Athelstan remembers far too well, remembers their blood on his axe in another life.
He has lost his axe, somewhere, and his sword. He should run, but he's stumbling, blood flowing from a wound in his thigh, dripping down into the red mud of the battlefield - and besides, Horik's men have trapped him, alone in a circle of shields, alone - except for Horik.
Athelstan's arms are hurting and his shield is heavy and getting heavier each time he raises it to stop Horik's blows. Splinters fly each time the axe bites deep.
Part of him wishes he could just throw the shield away, could just get this over with - except he's tried that before, on other days, bad days. The potions the valkyries use to heal the einherjar each evening dulls the memories, but not completely - never completely.
Horik is like the cat Lagertha brought Aslaug as a gift one year, toying with a mouse that has had the grave misfortune of catching its attention - and Athelstan is the mouse.
Horik swings his axe one more time and the shield comes apart in Athelstan's hands. He throws it away and tries to throw himself at Horik, fists balled and halfway hoping that he might force the man to finish his sport early, but to no avail. He finds himself pushed away, finds himself lying on his back in the red, warm mud.
Horik's men are laughing now, jeering at the fallen Christian in their midst, calling suggestion as their king considers the mouse before him.
"Shoot him."
"Stab him."
"Hamstring him."
"Gut him."
"Fuck him."
Athelstan crawls backwards, awkwardly and he knows it's in vain, that today won't end anytime soon, hoping that at least this time they won't - but even that hope is in vain, as Horik hands his axe off to one of his men and starts undoing his belt.
Athelstan finds himself praying - to God, to Thor, to any who might deign to listen - praying that the tide of the battle will shift, that the fighting will come rolling across them and drown them as it sometimes does.
But Horik approaches and when he tries to fight he holds him down and has one of his men shoot an arrow through each of his palms, nailing him to the ground.
Athelstan screws his eyes shut, seeking refuge in the blackness there, sorry shelter though it may have to offer.
He starts screaming when Horik starts cutting his clothes off, the knife cutting leather and skin, but his screams are drowned by roars of laughter.
Until they are not.
At first he thinks the screams are merely his own, echoing in his ears, but then there is a familiar roar rising above them and his eyes fly open at the same time the weight of Horik is lifted from him.
Above him, glorius to behold, is Ragnar, blood on his face and on his axe as he pulls it out of Horik's crumbling body and turns to face what's left of Horik's men - but they are already moving away, perhaps scared off at the sight of their dead leader.
For a moment Ragnar remains standing - then he sinks down next to Athelstan, reaching out to place a heavy hand on his chest, right above his pounding heart. Athelstan tries to smile at him, but it turns into a pained grimace and he can feel the far too familiar darkness closing in, but for once he doesn't mind.
At sunset, the valkyries find them like that.
The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Ragnar's face hovering above him, worry slowly fading from bright blue eyes like morning mists before the rising sun.
A/N: Inspired by a prompt on the Vikings Kink Meme, asking for: Athelstan dies in battle and is shocked and appalled to find himself in Valhalla. Turns out Odin doesn't care if you believe in him as long as you're a warrior, but Athelstan would much prefer a nice, peaceful Christian heaven. Feel free to kill off any one else you want to show up.